Did You Miss Me? - Chapter 1: Turbulence
by CompleteLackOfSurprise
Summary: This fic takes place right after the finale of season 3: Moriarty is alive and ready to pick up where he left off, i.e. making life for Consulting Detective, Sherlock Holmes, as hard as humanly possible. Can Sherlock match Jim's cunning and, more importantly, save his best friend's life? Feedback is much appreciated.
1. Chapter 1: Turbulence

Moriarty was dead, stone dead; Sherlock had seen it with his own eyes. But death was not always so final, so absolute. He knew that from his own scheming past, from the look in John's eyes as he found the face of the friend he thought he'd lost to the brutal hands of self-immolation. That look changed, of course, as their friendship began to reconstruct itself and the grief began to subside, eventually transforming into something vaguely resembling trust. Sherlock's death wasn't final, it was a trick of gargantuan proportions, an optical illusion, so to speak. Perhaps Moriarty had pulled a similar hoax, knowing full well that the man he aimed to eliminate could not be taken out so easily. _One thing is for sure_, the detective contemplated, _either Moriarty pulled a veil before my eyes just as I did to John, or one of his disciples has sprouted up from his ashes. _

Holmes put the phone down on Lestrade with an exasperated sigh. Part of him wanted to rebel against this mercurial system that had been pulling him one way and then forcing him back again; first they were eager to expose him, next they were hell bent on punishing him and now what? They needed his help? _Fine_, he thought, _I'll spare your simple minds from the corruption of Jim Moriarty, but after that what would you have me do?_ Just as the talons of bitterness began to take hold of his mind, an image flitted out from behind the gallantry of his ego. What had all this been for? Who was the sole person responsible for the glorious evolution and reparation of Sherlock's once tattered soul? The answer was more than simple, it was as plain as the nose of his face; _John H. Watson_.

"We need to turn around!" Holmes directed, now standing like a shot of icy wind. To his surprise none of the other passengers, not the officers in charge of Sherlock's safety and transportation or their superiors, seemed phased by this sudden appeal. "Well, come on then!" The detective raised his voice in contention with the silence of those around him. Finally an officer turned around, his expression carrying a sense of eerie composure. "We have not been notified of any such reason that would require the diversion of this aircraft." He said flatly.

Sherlock's brow furrowed in bemusement. Had they not just heard his frantic phone call only moments ago? "What is this? Change course immediately, I'm needed back in London. Has Mycroft not issued instructions for me to be taken back home?" His voice was sharper than he intended it to be, rushed with the struggle of time that was now against both him and those he held dearest. Another officer, a younger gentleman with raven hair and oval spectacles, turned round in an uncanny fashion, his eyes wide as an eagle owl but dense in both shade and reflection.

"We have received no such instructions, Mr Holmes, neither from your brother nor Detective Inspector Lestrade." The words appeared as an endless droning, almost as if they were the jumbled, recycled sounds of the media itself. Sherlock paused for a moment, sensing the peculiarity of the situation before the gravity of the scenario struck him. "I didn't mention Lestrade." He uttered. "And what's more, I recognize those glasses. Tell me, by any chance did anyone besides the coroner visit Magnussen's body after his death?" The sarcasm lit up his voice like a feathery chime, his opponent calm and collected as before.

After a few moments of complete stagnation, the officer's hard crafted lips motioned into a crescent smile and in one dexterous movement, he removed his gilded spectacles and inspected both lenses. "Now why would you be wearing Magnussen's glasses…if they never actually held any kind of useful information?" Holmes pondered aloud, his eyes questioning, always sceptical of the information presented to him. The officer remained smug, his smile now threatening to develop into a fully-fledged smirk. "You better talk to the pilot, Mr Holmes. He says he's an old friend of yours and that we're to ensure that your journey is a comfortable one. Why don't you sit back down, I'm sure he'll make himself known in no time."

Before he had even heard the pilot's voice, let alone seen his familiar face, aglow with malicious intent, Sherlock knew who the officer was referring to. Nevertheless, his logic told him to take a seat as there was nothing more he could do whilst they remained airborne, or until his nemesis dared to show his face, in theatrical style, no doubt. As expected, only moments later, a dull buzz came over the receiver and after a short pause the voice Sherlock had been waiting for came out as low and maleficent as the probing murmur of the detective's own conscience.

"This is your captain speaking…" Sherlock sat fixed in his seat as Moriarty spoke, a painful grimace spreading across his lips. "We may experience a little turbulence in the next few minutes as there is a chance that one of our passengers could be making a swift exit. But don't be alarmed, especially you, Sherlock. You don't have to worry about _staying alive_ while I'm around, that's always been a memorable trait of mine…wouldn't you say so?" Holmes detected the smile on Moriarty's lips as he spoke into the headset, but just as he was about to come to his feet once more, Jim appeared from behind the velvet curtains, ascending from the obscurity of the cockpit.

"So, Mr Holmes…" Moriarty said with a snicker, his eyes rolling back slightly in a reptilian fashion. Sherlock remained silent, taking a moment to run his hands through the roots of his ebony swathed locks, Jim's smile already beginning to grate on him. "So, what?" He muttered.  
"So?" Moriarty's voice tilted almost musically, carrying with it a sense of childlike anticipation.  
His excitement was met by the silent, yet questioning eyes of Sherlock Holmes. "Aren't you going to tell me?" He elaborated. Sherlock raised his chin, a gesture that lead Moriarty to his usual response of feigning boredom.

"Tell you what?" His eyes narrowed as if they were zoning in on the sharply dressed Irishman. In reality, Sherlock was planning his next move, planning far ahead right up to the point that his feet touched the moist terrain below. "You _know_ what." Moriarty arched his brow, continuing with a certain tragic eccentricity. "Tell me honestly, you missed me, didn't you?" This was a level of egotism that surpassed even Sherlock's self-adoration. The bluntness and incredulity of it sent splinters of loathing up the detective's arms, leaving his skin raw as gooseflesh.

"You really believe that I could miss you? You truly think that _England_ missed you? If you want an honest reaction, Moriarty, then here it is; the world was a much brighter place the instant you placed that gun in your mouth…and pulled the trigger." A look of gut wrenching animosity flooded Moriarty's face but it was wiped within seconds, leaving only a false smile in its place. "Ooh, look out, this kitten's got claws!" Jim said, mockingly. "It must be such a shame then…" He continued. "That I'm back…and ready to finish what I started. A shame for you at least…and certainly a shame for John Watson."


	2. Chapter 2: And John Will Cry Buckets

After dealing with the sudden influx of phone calls from colleagues and clients who had all witnessed Moriarty's harrowing return live on British television, not to mention the viral surge of online gossip it produced, sending his villainous profile twice around the globe and then some, Mycroft was finally able to make a much needed call to John Watson. "Mycroft, what is it? Don't tell me he's pulled some Houdini trick on the plane and is parachuting towards a soft field as we speak?" The doctor's voice was light and casual but Mycroft could sense the faint trace of melancholy hiding just beneath the surface. "Listen, John." He began. "There's been a…slight change of plan; Sherlock's on his way back, under my orders." There was a pause as John tried to make sense of the information placed in front of him. Hadn't he, merely ten minutes since, been forced to say his final goodbyes to the illusive Sherlock Holmes before watching his companion's plane take off and whir away into the distance?

"John? Are you there?" Mycroft's stiffened voice brought him back from the clutches of daydream.  
"I'm here I just…don't understand. You're saying that Sherlock isn't on his way to the Far East, but he's actually on his way back to England?" Dr Watson couldn't help smiling in disbelief. Sat beside him, Mary's eyes suddenly lit up with subdued curiosity; part of her wanted to remain passive after what had happened between her and John, but the Mary she had come to terms with, the Mary whom John still often gazed at with an ever growing glimmer of understanding and adoration, was eager to hear what all the commotion was about. "What's going on?" She mouthed, but John was tense with focus and so her attempts to peek inside the engrossed brain of John Watson remained unsuccessful for the meantime.

"Yes John, exactly. Well, now that _he's_ back, Sherlock's the only one we can trust as a weapon of self-defence. Let's just hope it doesn't bloody-well backfire." Watson said nothing, only listened. "I assume you're still in the car with Mary, but you mustn't under any circumstances go back to your house or anywhere near Baker Street. Is that understood?" Mycroft's voice rang out like a school teacher bellowing down a darkened hall, but it fell like an abyss of deafness on John's ears. "I'm sorry, c-could you repeat that? Who's back? Are you talking about Sherlock? Why should I stay away from Baker Street?" The doctor's questions unravelled in a hazy stream that seemed to unfurl onto the road in front of him. Mary's eyes widened as the true topic of conversation began to emerge.

"Oh, you haven't heard the news, John?" Mycroft was smiling hard against the receiver. He took John's silence as negation. "It's Moriarty. He's back." The words, cold and heavily barbed, pelted John with a kind of emotional whiplash; his mind surged with questions, more questions than the human mind was able to conceive, the kind of quizzing that only Sherlock Holmes himself had time for. "Stop the car!" Cried Dr Watson, his tone not one of anger but pure insistence. Mary complied at once, slamming her foot down on the break until the vehicle had come to a jarring halt. "What the hell's going on?" She asked frankly, her tentative gaze drifting across the dashboard to meet John's. Mycroft ended the call decisively, the smile still lingering a moment on his lips.

The car was silent; not even the lull of the engine could pierce the aura of detachment Watson had surrounded himself with. "He's back." His lips finally broke into motion, though his eyes barely lifted to meet Mary's. "Who, Sherlock? Bloody hell, we've only just said goodbye to him. If I didn't know any better I'd say you two were involved in some kind of weird love affair." She laughed heartily to herself but then noticing the frozen expression on John's face, the pale trace of dread gilding his stately features, retreated into a half-smile. "No." John swallowed. "Moriarty's back…and that means he'll be looking for me. He'll be looking for both of us." He placed his hand over Mary's to steady them both, their wedding rings clattering slightly as if to remind him that he was no longer alone in this constant state of martyrdom.

"I can't be the damsel in distress this time, Mary. I don't have the strength for it anymore." Watson's voice dipped a little as he spoke, the damp corners of his eyes threatening to spill over at any moment. "There's no reason for you to be, John. Moriarty can try to use you as his scapegoat as many times as he likes but he will have to get through me first. I promise you that." Mary pronounced each word like it was a sacred oath on which her life depended. In some way, John supposed, it was an oath; after all, they had taken vows on their wedding day, swearing to love and protect each other 'til death rendered them both unable. Perhaps things would be different this time with Mary by his side and Sherlock's firm knowledge on the subject of pseudo-suicide. It was just as this thought began to filter into the next that a loud ringing, not too dissimilar to that of a rusted iron fence being swung open repeatedly, came over the previously hushed radio. The pair were resoundingly grateful once this ear-splitting noise had come to an end, but all was not over.

"John? J-John!" The voice was quiet at first and then raised as ink under puckering flesh. Mary had trouble placing it at first but John had already leant in, his limbs shaking. "Sherlock? Is that you?" He exclaimed, addressing the radio itself as though there were a miniature Sherlock Holmes crouched away in there, as though his friend could hear him. "John!" The voice seemed fatigued, utterly drained of its usual know-it-all charm. "I don't have much time but…" Sherlock was panting. "There's something you have to do for me." John sat even further forward and once again, proceeded to speak into the radio. "Yes, anything! Just tell me!" He cried.

"I need you…to reach into the backseat. Under the right seat there's a bomb. John, you need to disable it; just remember what I did in the station and don't forget… there's always an off switch!" After this final and peculiar piece of advice, Sherlock's voice faded to a simmer and then the silence of the inactive radio returned. John sat motionless at first, his eyes pulled wide as a wounded bird taking its final breaths. Mary was the first to take action; her seatbelt flew back into its holster as she leapt across the backseat and pulled the lethal package from its darkened nook. "What do we do with it now, John? Sherlock said you could remember." Her voice sounded panicky but there was a depth of faith to it, as though the flustered fluttering of her wings could be settled by her husband's mockingbird song.

"Sherlock says a lot of things." John remarked. "Sometimes I wish he'd just keep his mouth shut."


End file.
